


But We Were Gods Then

by MJ (mjr91)



Category: Star Trek - Enterprise
Genre: Enterprise, M/M, NX-01, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-25
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 07:57:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjr91/pseuds/MJ
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enterprise follows a Starfleet distress beacon to find a planet whose natives have been enslaved by the downed ship's crew, and their captain -- Jonathan Archer's former lover.  Archer is kidnapped, and Reed must find a way to take Archer's ex-lover, the colony's governor, into custody to rescue Archer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	But We Were Gods Then

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an idea that I could take classic TOS themes -- Kirk's crazed ex-lovers, Starfleet officers violating the Prime Directive, non-gods being worshiped as gods by others, planets being exploited by colonists, and good old-fashioned TOS brawling without high-tech wapons, and turn them into an Enterprise story.
> 
> All of this just to write Kickass!Malcolm Reed. But he's worth it.

_But we were Gods then: we were they  
Who laughed at fools, believed in friends,  
And drank to all that golden day  
Before us, which this poem ends.  
\-- from "The Sentimentalist", James Elroy Flecker_

 

The communicator panel squawked, rousing both Captain Jonathan Archer  
and Lieutenant Malcolm Reed from sleep. "Bridge to Captain Archer."   
It was Hoshi, whose shift started half-a-shift earlier than theirs  
did that day.

Archer reached up to the panel, trying not to dislodge his lover, who  
was still curled against his chest, now sleepily running his fingers  
across Archer's chest and through its hair. Whatever Hoshi needed to  
wake them up for had better be good. "Archer here."

"Is Lieutenant Reed with you, Sir?" Their relationship was no  
secret; they'd been together on board too long to even try to conceal  
it. Everyone on board knew of it; most of the crew had accepted the  
actual news with boredom, as they'd known all about it long before  
either man had said a word.

"He's here."

"I think both of you should come to the Bridge, Sir. We're getting a  
Starfleet ship's beacon from a planet in the vicinity. It's the  
beacon for Calliope, Sir."

"*Calliope*?" The disappearance of Calliope a decade earlier had been  
the great "lost ship" tale of Starfleet's history. The large scout  
ship, with twenty aboard, had last signalled that it was responding  
to a freighter's distress call. Calliope had never been seen, or  
heard from, again. Archer had served on Calliope as a lieutenant,  
under its legendary and now missing commander, Captain Leonard  
Martello; he'd remarked on the fact to his senior staff more than  
once, usually when telling stories about Martello's infamous brawls.   
"We're on our way. Archer out."

Reed was already on his feet and looking for a uniform.

* * *

"I've isolated a town of some sort that seems to have radio  
capability, Captain," Hoshi said as Reed and Archer arrived on the  
Bridge. "There are humanoid forms there... and a few Earth humans.   
Did you want me to try to make contact?"

Archer moved to the command chair. "You're absolutely *sure* it's  
Calliope's beacon?" 

"I've checked it three times," Hoshi told him. "I cross-checked it  
with the beacon signal database; it's Calliope. The ship's down  
there - and apparently some survivors, since there are humans."

T'Pol approached from the rear of the Bridge. "Captain, the name of  
this planet is Kiwar. It is in the Vulcan database, but there has  
been no entry on it in nearly twenty years. At the time, it was an  
aboriginal tribal planet made up of hunter-gatherer tribes. There  
are now signs of technology on the planet in this area, and some  
primitive factory of some sort, possibly being fueled by a small warp  
reactor as an energy source. It would appear that the survivors of  
Calliope have colonized this region in some fashion."

"Don't try making contact just yet, Hoshi. Have we got a visual,  
Malcolm?"

Reed adjusted his scanners and set them for the main viewscreen. "If  
you can believe it, Sir..."

Archer's jaw dropped. "Can we get in closer?"

If neither had seen it, neither of them would have imagined it  
possible. In the middle of a large cleared area of what looked as if  
it had been nearly tropical sat a small red-brick town, clearly  
recently built, but aping remarkably the look of a Southern colonial  
village. A number of small red-brick houses and a few wooden ones  
surrounded a town square. There were two larger buildings that  
looked like warehouses of some kind, and one taller one that looked  
remarkably like an armory. Behind the other buildings, a larger area  
of cleared grass between it and the rest of the town, stood a very  
large brick house with a cupola, and with a brick fence behind it,  
blocking out a view of the tropical alien foliage.

Reed cleared his throat. "Sir, the scanners indicate that there is a  
warp reactor in one of the large buildings. It's apparently being  
used as a power generator for the entire settlement. I haven't  
isolated the location of the beacon yet."

"Mr. Tucker," Archer asked, "could the warp engine from a scout ship  
of any class provide enough power for what we're looking at?"

Trip Tucker squinted at the viewscreen, sighing. "Depends.   
Possibly, if they're careful about power surges... and if they've got  
a good engineer. If I recall, the engineer on Calliope when it  
vanished was Mickey Singer. She was damn good, from what I hear.   
Beyond that... hookin' all that up's a piece of work, but it's not  
impossible. You got enough people, you can do it. Doesn't need a  
lot of skill for that part of it."

"Amazing," Reed muttered.

"What?"

"One of those buildings... the larger one to the right... they're  
running a massive replicator unit in it. It's offline right now, but  
it's enormous. Unless I miss my guess..." Reed ran another scan.   
"Of course. They don't have actual heavy manufacturing to produce  
some of this; it's all constructed from replicated parts.   
Incredible."

Tucker stared. "Sounds like Singer's work. She worked in  
resequencing and replicator technology when she started out."

There was silence. Finally, Archer spoke. "Can we get a closeup of  
the people?"

Another picture emerged on the viewscreen. A tall woman in a long  
dress was followed by a man with two children. Archer choked.   
"That's Commander Pamela Wilcox. Calliope's First Officer." He  
paused. "Those look like they'd be her children... but she wasn't  
married..." The man came closer into the picture. He was  
well-dressed, in a suit, but there were markings or tattoos of some  
sort on his face.

"He appears to be one of the natives," T'Pol said.

Another native was following Wilcox and the man, struggling under the  
burden of several heavy packages. Barely dressed, this man's  
markings differed significantly from those of the man with Wilcox.

"Another native," T'Pol commented. "It would appear, Captain, that  
the survivors of Calliope have forged some kind of alliance with one  
of the local tribes, and that they are using one of the other tribes  
as servants of some kind. Of course, it is difficult to be clear on  
that without further information."

"Stay in orbit, Travis," Archer commanded. "Trip, Malcolm, we need to  
talk. My ready room." 

The three men headed into Archer's ready room, and Archer seated  
himself. "Sit," he ordered his Chief Engineer and his Tactical  
Officer. "I think the three of us are going on down, but I want to  
talk to both of you first. You both know I served on Calliope." The  
others nodded. "I knew Martello and his First Officer, Pam Wilcox.   
They're two of the ones who were missing. I don't think I knew any  
of the other crew that disappeared." He was silent for a moment. "I  
don't like what I see there. I think T'Pol may be right. Even with  
the largest replicator in the galaxy, that town couldn't have been  
built by the Calliope survivors alone. We know they're involved with  
the native population somehow. We need to find out what's going on."

Tucker frowned. "We need to contact Starfleet, and we need to get  
Calliope's crew back home."

"If they'll go," Reed stated quietly.

"What's that?" Tucker asked. 

"They're living in a town that's straight out of a historical  
archive, except that it has full power and a replicator," Reed told  
the other two men. "They may have intermarried with the local  
population, from what you saw of Commander Wilcox. This may be a  
makeshift situation for them, but they've gone far beyond what's  
needed merely to survive; they've created their own fantasy world  
here. They've lived in it for some time. I shouldn't be surprised  
if they don't choose to leave - or if they don't care to report back  
to Starfleet."

"It's still our job to check it out," Tucker said.

"Oh, I agree," Reed replied. "I agree entirely. I merely advise not  
to expect their cooperation."

"I want a shuttle ready," Archer said. "We're going down there."

Reed waved a hand in warning. "If I may, Sir." 

"Yes?" Archer had to smile to himself. Reed was enough of a  
stickler for protocol that, even alone with no one but Archer and  
their closest friend, he couldn't drop the 'sir' when he was on duty.  
Some crew couldn't remember to use "sir" when they were supposed to;  
Reed used it nearly everywhere except in bed with his lover. It had  
taken over a month for Archer to break Reed completely of calling him  
'sir' when they were alone and off duty even after they'd begun  
seeing each other seriously.

"I don't like this any more than you do," Reed explained. "I'd like  
us to think about something. They're dependent on their remaining  
Starfleet engineering and technology to keep running, and possibly  
upon their old weapons technology in dealing with the natives.   
They'll know we have more of it than they do, and that it's many  
years newer. Might I suggest that until we get the actual lay of the  
land, until we know what is really happening, we refrain from  
informing them of the ship's capacities? I'd also suggest that we  
not disclose yet that Mr. Tucker is our Chief Engineer. They may or  
may not think they need our assistance, but I shouldn't like us to  
wind up being dragged into providing technical support for them  
unless we're sure of how it's being used. I should think that Trip  
and I could assist in assessing what they're doing more effectively  
if they don't know what we actually do on the ship."

"That's not a bad idea," Tucker ventured. "Jus' tell 'em I'm First  
Officer. They need to know what I do, I can always tell 'em I'm Chef  
lookin' for new food to try out. Whatta you wanna be, Malcolm?"

"Other than the shuttlepod pilot? Other than that... maybe I just  
came along for the ride. I'll decide that when I see what's  
happening."

Archer paused. "Before we go down there... there's one thing I think  
I'd better tell you. Both of you. Martello may still be alive. If  
he is... we'll have to see him... You know Martello's famous for  
shooting off his mouth. He's very likely to say something about me  
in front of both of you that I want you to hear from me first." He  
slumped back in his chair and stared at the ceiling.

"What's that?" Reed asked.

"When I served under Martello on Calliope... for three years... I was  
Martello's lover for most of my assignment with him."

Reed said nothing at the news, mulling it over in his mind. He'd had  
no reason to think that he was Archer's first male lover, or his  
first lover in Starfleet, any more than Archer had reason to expect  
it of him. One didn't normally meet one's lover's ex-lovers under  
this type of circumstance. Of course, on this mission, one did a  
great many things one didn't normally expect to do. However, one  
also didn't normally find out that one's lover's former partner was a  
historical legend. Martello had made a reputation as a drinker, a  
brawler... and as one of Starfleet's finest pilots and navigators.   
Stories still abounded about the man who could toss down drinks for  
half a night, clear out half of the bar with any handy weapon or his  
fists afterwards, and go out on mission on three hours' sleep  
following that, coming back more successful than planned. Martello  
was one of the great romantic legends of Starfleet, and the  
disappearance of Calliope on a rescue mission had only grown more  
stories about the man. There was nothing to say; better to keep  
quiet for now, worry about what this all meant later.

Tucker, on the other hand, goggled. "You an' *Martello*? Whoo."

"I'll spare you the details. Let's get ready to roll."

* * *

There was no way to land the shuttlepod in a clear area without the  
townsfolk seeing them, but that might, Archer thought, be the best  
way to make contact; it seemed an improvement over wandering around  
in Starfleet uniforms asking questions. It was likely that if a  
number of people were together, someone he'd known might be in the  
group.

It looked as if he were right. Almost as soon as they were spotted  
descending, people began congregating. When they came into landing  
range, it was clear that Pam Wilcox was among the crowd. Reed landed  
the shuttlepod as close as he could come safely to the few dozen  
townspeople assembled there, of whom five or so appeared to be  
Starfleet, and another dozen or so were children. The rest were  
well-dressed natives with the same face markings as Wilcox's husband,  
and some few poorly dressed folk with the markings of Wilcox's  
servant. As soon as practicable, Archer opened the shuttlepod hatch.

Wilcox stepped forward. "Starfleet?" she called as the hatch opened.

"Commander Wilcox?" Archer stepped out of the shuttle.

Wilcox dropped the few small items she'd been holding. "Jonathan  
Archer! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes." She eyed his uniform.   
"*And* a captain, at that. Congratulations! Welcome to  
Williamsburg, Kiwar." She reached over and hugged her former  
lieutenant. "Who's with you?"

Tucker and Reed climbed out of the shuttlepod. "My first officer,  
Commander Charles Tucker." Tucker took Wilcox's hand and bowed  
slightly. It was a bit much, but he didn't often meet ladies in long  
white tea dresses on his job, even if they were the same rank he was.  
"And my pilot, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed." Reed stood back slightly,  
nodding to her politely.

"What brings you here?" Wilcox asked. "We're not exactly on the  
beaten path."

"Calliope's beacon. Our ship picked up the signal this morning."

"Our beacon..." Wilcox mused. "My lord... the ship crash-landed over  
there" - she pointed to a small clearing among some trees - "a good  
ten years ago. Who'd have thought the beacon was still  
transmitting?"

"Did everyone survive?"

Wilcox nodded. "We did. Captain Martello made a phenomenal  
emergency landing. We survived... and I'm sure you saw, we've built  
a community here that we're very proud of. Our friends the Iwa here  
helped us, once they saw how our technology could help them, and,  
well, we've kind of married in. This is my husband, Walei."

The well-dressed tribesman extended a manicured hand to Archer, then  
to the other two men. "Please, I prefer Derrick. Much more  
civilized." Reed and Tucker glanced at each other. 'Since the white  
gods decided to live among us and teach us their ways, it is an honor  
for us to become part of your culture." Reed nodded civilly at  
Walei, then quietly elbowed Tucker, who gave Reed a very slight nod  
back. Walei's phrasing had not been lost on either of them.

"At any rate, Jon," Wilcox picked up, "I'm sure you'll want to see  
Len." She touched her husband's arm. "Have some of the men notify  
Governor Martello that there are visitors from Starfleet to see him.   
And be sure they let the Governor's cooks know." She smiled at the  
three visitors. "The Governor loves to give dinners. Occasionally  
we host a few of the more civilized tribes from the Northern region.   
They're studying us to try to learn how to form governments. A few  
tribes, though, like the Sian here," she said, pointing to the other  
tribesmen, "there's just nothing to do with them but work them."

"If they won't learn the white gods' ways," Walei said, "what else  
are they fit for?" He kissed Wilcox on the cheek and headed up  
towards the Governor's mansion.

"Derrick's a dear," she said. "He's the Iwa chief. Their culture  
teaches about a race of white gods with great powers, so when we  
showed up with warp technology... you see..." she trailed off.

"I see." Archer said nothing more. The discussion, both of  
Calliope's military involvement with the locals and of gods, had been  
no more wasted on him than it was on Tucker or Reed. It was  
alarmingly clear that Reed's warnings might well be exactly right.

"And let me give you a tour of Williamsburg while you wait for the  
Governor."

* * *  
Wilcox led Archer, Reed, and Tucker along a hedged path into the  
developed part of the town. Children peered out from doors and  
windows, some of them appearing to be offspring of two colonists, the  
others mestizos, half-human, half-Kiwaran. None of the mixed-race  
children had any facial markings; it wasn't clear if the tribe did  
not mark them until puberty or adulthood, or if the Iwa who had  
married Earth colonists had abandoned the tattooing as part of their  
adoption of their "gods'" practices.

As she walked along, Wilcox pointed out the various sights. The one  
building they had spotted on the viewscreen was indeed an armory.   
Reed would have loved to know why the townsfolk were foolish enough  
to appear to keep all of their major arms in one building they might  
not be able to reach, since Starfleet would never have encouraged the  
idea, but the colonists seemed dedicated to the reconstruction of a  
spurious colonial village... albeit one with every twenty-second  
century convenience. They had lighting, heating and cooling systems,  
plumbing, computers, and, quite obviously, a heavily-used replicator  
plant.

The creature comforts, however, did not extend to the Sian housing.   
The Sian "servants" all lived in small wooden huts behind the brick  
and wood-shingled houses or in a cluster of huts at the edge of the  
town. Judging from their general condition, the huts lacked even the  
most basic utilities.

Wilcox kept a running narrative going, primarily to Archer directly,  
allowing Reed and Tucker the opportunity to observe. Tucker was  
trying to judge warp reactor size and location, and how much strain  
was being put upon it. A warp-2.5 reactor for an older large scout  
ship could take fairly constant use, but not abuse, and powering a  
small town was not what its designers had in mind. However, if  
Singer had reworked it or had trained someone, and if there were any  
dilithium resources available, anything was possible. 

"And of course," Wilcox said, smiling, as they came up on the larger  
buildings, "we don't really need an economy. Our Chief Engineer,  
Lieutenant Commander Singer, was able to expand upon typical  
Starfleet resequencing and replication technology. We colonists  
needn't do anything we don't choose; we can have anything we need  
produced right here." She opened the door to the replicator plant;  
it was the largest replicator facility any of the three had ever  
seen. "We even replicate our clothing. Anything we had a picture of  
in the ship's data base could be replicated. The Governor is from  
Virginia, and I was always partial to colonial history, so we've  
replicated Williamsburg - at least, as much as we can make fit, and,  
of course, with more comfortable facilities." While she and Archer  
were looking, Reed blocked Tucker's side from their tour guide's  
view; the engineer was scanning everything he could see as quickly as  
he could, and trying to fit the hand scanner back into a cargo pocket  
of his uniform without being noticed.

Reed, on the other hand, when not covering Tucker, seemed determined  
to be noticed. He finally walked up to Wilcox, although "glided"  
might have been a better description of his movements. Reaching out  
and fingering a corner of the lace on her sleeve, he asked, "You're  
*seriously* telling me that *this* is replicated."

Archer and Tucker looked at each other. That wasn't the Malcolm Reed  
either of them knew.

"Yes, it is," Wilcox said, looking rather pleased with herself.   
"This replicator does a phenomenal job."

"My *dear*," Reed assured her, patting her hand, "you look  
*stunning*. But really," he said, leaning in towards her, "if *I*  
were you... lilac. It's your color." He smirked at her  
conspiratorially. She looked back at him, entranced. "Check,  
darling; you'll adore it."

"Lilac? Really? Hmmm, let me see. We have a few minutes. And I  
*can* work this myself..." Wilcox began programming as Reed blocked  
her view of Tucker again. Tucker pulled out the hand scanner and  
began recording the replicator's operation.

While Wilcox fidgeted with the controls, Archer turned to Reed.   
"Nice work," he whispered, "but what the hell are you doing?"

Reed gave his lover a half-smile, but his eyes shot daggers.   
"Working very hard at getting what we need by *not* being taken  
seriously," he hissed into Archer's ear through clenched teeth.   
"Play along."

"Lieutenant?" Wilcox called. Reed made his way back over to her.   
"What do you think?" She held up the new dress for inspection.

Reed stepped back, placed a finger to his lips, and looked over the  
dress thoughtfully. Then he nodded slowly. "Darling, it's *you*.   
Derrick will *love* it."

"You think so?" Wilcox asked him, desperately serious. Archer was  
amazed. In the three years he'd known Pamela Wilcox, the commander  
had never begged anyone for an opinion, and he hadn't thought she'd  
have started doing it here. For some reason, however, Reed had her  
under his thumb playing designer. "What about shoes?"

Reed looked down his nose in a way that absolutely astounded his  
lover, who tried not to stare. "Gray, dear. Gray suede. Very  
plain, no bows. Trust me." It was hardly credible that Reed could  
have been any more arch in his delivery.

"Oh, I do..." Wilcox looked up at a chronograph. "Later, though.   
You'll all need to head up to the Governor's Mansion now. Governor  
Martello hates people being late for him. I'll see you, Lieutenant."

"What're you *doing*?" Tucker asked Reed when the three men exited.

"Getting you a chance to read the replicator power usage by getting  
her to put it to use. You noticed the lights dim there when she  
activated it, I'm sure," Reed answered. "*And* I've got her eating  
out of my hand. Besides, we know things are wrong here from the  
get-go. The less dangerous anyone thinks we are to their colony  
while we're working this out, the better off we are."

"Yeah? Well, that business was dangerous to my stomach."

"*She* liked it, which is what counts. I'm not exactly thrilled about  
flouncing around myself - but I'm the *only* one of us who can get  
away with it. Calliope is an American crew - and for some reason,  
you Yanks all seem to expect it from the English."

"*I* don't," Archer replied, snorting.

"That's one thing I love about you," Reed told him, a hand on  
Archer's shoulder. "I'll think of the other things some other time.   
Meanwhile, let's go drop in on your captain."

* * *

They were greeted by the improbable sight of Iwa guards in colonial  
American uniforms guarding the doors to the Governor's Mansion. The  
guards had been notified of their arrival, it seemed, as none of them  
challenged the party, and one of the guards saw fit to open one of  
the heavy doors for them. An Iwa housekeeper in a long blue gingham  
dress and a full ruffled apron met them in the enormous foyer, under  
a chandelier that would have swamped a smaller room. Martello hadn't  
done this on a small scale. "Captain Archer? The Governor is  
expecting you. You'll be meeting him in the dining room; lunch is  
ready." She indicated a set of double doors with an Iwa who might  
have been a footman standing ready to admit them.

As they approached the doors, the Iwa admitted them, with a bow that  
would have been ludicrous had he been less serious, to a dining room  
that wouldn't have been out of place had Malcolm been told he was at  
Windsor Castle, or had Trip been told he was at Tara. The room was  
longer than a Starfleet Headquarters main conference room, with  
windows along one side that were easily over eight feet high. A  
fireplace was at either end of the room; portraits were hung  
everywhere available. The room was dominated by an enormous dining  
table that easily sat two dozen people. At the head of the table,  
and rising, was unquestionably Captain Leonard Martello.

Martello was about the same height as Archer, broad-shouldered and  
barrel-chested. Archer was better-built, but Martello was still  
plainly as strong as an ox. Although he was easily fifteen years  
older than Archer, he barely looked it but for the gray in his hair,  
which he wore in a decidedly non-Starfleet long braid down his back,  
over a maroon velvet jacket and black waistcoat. He was handsome  
now, and, as far as Malcolm could tell, must have been even more  
attractive when he'd been younger and at regulation weight.

And judging by the deep breath from the man beside him, he was still  
attractive enough for Jonathan Archer to notice.

"My dear Jonathan! What a wonderful surprise. You and your friends  
come down here now," Martello called. There was the faintest trace  
of what might once have been a Southern accent, not as noticeable as  
Tucker's, but lingering in the background of Martello's voice.   
Archer nudged Tucker and Reed, indicating that they should follow  
him. Martello's eyes were following Archer as they came towards the  
area of the table that had been set for lunch; a shiver from Archer  
showed that he was aware of it, and Reed could almost feel Martello's  
assessment of Archer himself. Martello apparently took none of his  
pleasures for granted, or in a small way. "Ah, you've made captain.   
Congratulations, Jonathan; rank obviously agrees with you."

"Thank you, Captain Martello." Archer was standing about two feet  
from Martello now, well into Martello's personal space, but not  
touching him. 

Martello gave a half-smile. "Ah, captain. No one reminds me of my  
rank any more, now that I'm Governor of Williamsburg. But you,  
Jonathan - surely you should be calling me 'Marty.' You always liked  
that better than 'Len,' didn't you? So did I - no one else ever  
called me that." He looked over Archer again. "Welcome, Jonathan.   
It's good to see you again. I *have* missed you." Martello clutched  
Archer's shoulders and kissed him on the cheek; to Reed's  
astonishment, Archer exchanged the greeting.

Then Martello noticed the other two. "Ah, Commander. Lieutenant.   
Welcome. I'm sure you know your captain served under me?"

"So he's said, Sir," Tucker replied, casting an eye on Reed.

"I think I hear you're the First Officer and the pilot? Wonderful!   
They must have changed things around - Starfleet always was doing  
that - red used to be for ship's services and engineering. Horrid  
color choice, I thought. But what do I know?" He waved a hand around  
the room. "This is my place now, and I change the rules much less  
often than Starfleet, I assure you." Martello grinned. "Sit down,  
gentlemen, please!" He ushered Archer to a seat close to his. Reed  
nudged Tucker, gave him a fast look, and took the seat to Archer's  
right. That put Tucker at Martello's other corner, across from  
Archer. 

Reed propped an elbow on the table, leaned his head on it, and looked  
around the room. "I must say, you've done a *wonderful* job with  
this place. It's quite phenomenal."

Martello beamed. "Glad someone else has the taste to appreciate it,  
Lieutenant. Care for a drink? You'll be surprised at what we've  
been able to replicate." He rang a bell, and an Iwa steward brought  
out a tray with decanters. "I'm sure the Lieutenant's a Scotch  
drinker. I know *you* are, Jonathan." The steward began pouring  
into four heavy, heavily-engraved crystal tumblers. "Well,  
Lieutenant," Martello said, handing Reed one of the glasses, "let's  
see if my replicated stuff meets with the approval of a Brit."

The glass was accepted with a nod and with what looked to Tucker to  
be a bat of Reed's eyelashes directly at Martello. The caution he  
took in taking the first sip was evident; the concept of replicated  
highland malt whisky was a frightening one, and not just to him.   
Then he looked up at Martello, apparently truly astonished. "You've  
managed to replicate Strathmore?"

"It's supposed to be Glenmachrie, actually, but you're close,"  
Martello chuckled. "It *is* a bit closer to Strathmore. Cheaper to  
replicate than to buy, let me tell you." He handed glasses around  
the table, and stood as the Iwa removed the tray. "To friends,  
gentlemen. Friends and lovers." The glance at Archer was readily  
apparent. It would have been more reassuring if Archer hadn't been  
looking straight back at him.

Martello seated himself again, then, after a few minutes'  
conversation, rang another bell. Two waiters brought in the food,  
most of it, according to Martello, locally raised by Iwa landowners  
with Sian dirt farmers working for them. A query from Tucker  
elicited that Calliope had found it expedient to join the Iwa in the  
local civil war when it had landed; their technology had succeeded in  
subjugating the Sian in the land dispute. Relations between  
Calliope's survivors and the Iwa were an odd mix of worship and  
intermarriage; the Iwa seemed quite content to have gods that were  
all too human and lived in the same neighborhood. Marrying a  
Calliope survivor was the ultimate status event for the Iwa.

"I see yer First Officer married the tribal leader," Tucker observed.  
"What about you?"

"Me?" Martello laughed in a deep tone. "As chief of the local  
deities, I think it behooves me to stay a bit beyond attainability  
for the tribesmen. If I *did* become involved, it would almost have  
to be with another human, not one of the locals. And they have some  
rather unfortunate taboos I've never quite convinced a few of the  
better-looking boys to drop, anyway." He paused. "Tell me,  
Jonathan, how would you like to be promoted from captain to deity?   
It can be arranged."

The offer was obvious. Archer parried it. "My crew tells me that's  
happened already, Marty. I've already had to outlaw child sacrifice.  
It was getting on my nerves." He returned to his salad.

Martello laughed, but clearly didn't intend to forget the subject.   
Tucker tried changing it, to one that was of more concern to him.   
"Cap'n Martello, if you or any of your people want, we've got some  
room; if you'd like to get back to Earth, we can take a few people  
with us and get them to a starbase, or we can bring in a Vulcan  
ship..."

The governor shook his head. "Why? Do you really think any of us  
would want to go back there, and leave this? This isn't a survival  
camp, Commander; we've taken over this land, we've built the  
community we've wanted... We live well. When we went out on that  
distress call and the Nausicaans knocked out one of our engines, all  
we could think of was how to get home. Then, just to make things  
worse for us, we thought, they towed Calliope into deep space. We  
limped here, thinking we were dead, and the Iwa came to our aid  
because we fulfilled their prophecies. Between the Iwa, and Chief  
Engineer Singer's work, we've created a Utopia for ourselves out of a  
jungle and an aboriginal war. What's back on Earth that could  
compare to this? Nothing."

"What should we tell Starfleet?" Tucker asked.

"Don't," Martello replied without hesitation. "All we want is to  
live here in peace. You can ask the rest. If any survivor wanted to  
go, they'd have my blessing, but ask - none of them would give this  
up for anything. We have everything we want right here. Well...  
almost everything, for some of us," he added. "Bring your crew down  
here, Jonathan. Ask them. I'll bet you a cask of that Scotch that  
at least three of them would choose to stay right here rather than  
continue whatever mission you're on."

"That may be true," Archer replied, "but I won't be letting them.   
We're on an exploration mission. Who knows - there might be a better  
paradise on the planet 'round the corner and they'd miss out on it,"  
he said sardonically.

"Oh, Jonathan, you're being a cynic. It's not becoming to you."

"I prefer to think of myself as being a realist. About this, anyway."

"You might think that, but you're still a cynic. Why don't you all  
stay down here a day or two and look around? You'll see we're  
perfectly content and perfectly well provided for. You may have  
become too sophisticated to enjoy the little historical anachronism  
we've created for ourselves, but it works for us. I have rooms here;  
why don't the three of you stay overnight?" Martello paused.   
"Unless you'd like to being someone else down?"

"Such as?"

"I'm hoping you'll say no to that last question, of course. I was  
politely trying to determine if you had a... um... friend... on  
board. It's been a long time, Jonathan."

Another glance between Tucker and Reed; Archer had been right in  
indicating that Martello had the subtlety of a Vulcan near a pile of  
manure. "It's been a *very* long time, Marty - and yes, there *is*  
someone." Archer's eyes were on Martello, but he reached over to  
take Reed's hand. "And I'm perfectly happy with things the way they  
are."

Martello flicked a glance across at Archer, then Reed, and then back  
at Archer. "Ah, well, you can't blame me for trying," he sighed. "No  
harm, no foul. My apologies, gentlemen; no offense meant,  
Lieutenant." 

Reed gave Martello a sidelong glance, eyelashes fluttering again.   
"None taken, Governor Martello. Actually, I'm rather flattered to  
see that we have the same opinion, Sir." He ran fingertips gently up  
Archer's arm to the shoulder and gave his lover the barest hint of a  
smile before removing them. If Malcolm Reed had ever come closer to  
simpering, it wasn't clear when that was. Whether that was the  
shock, or that he did it so well was the shock, Tucker wasn't sure.   
Reed had already managed to pass as a Suliban, and he was rumored to  
be better at doing Tucker than Tucker was, though the engineer had  
never seen Reed's Tucker act; the engineer decided that he'd better  
get used to Reed's acting sooner rather than later.

Whatever Martello might have thought of the simpering, the flattery  
it contained was apparently appreciated; if he could have preened, he  
undoubtedly would have. "I'll arrange for you to see Chief Engineer  
Singer's domain this afternoon, and, if you'd like, Jonathan, there  
might be time for you to catch up with Wilcox. As I've said, feel  
free to talk to anyone you want, Commander. Lieutenant," Martello  
offered, "would you rather join Captain Archer, or would you like to  
see what I've been able to have replicated? The art here is all  
replicated from various sources; you might be interested."

"Really?" It seemed impossible that Reed should be able to bat his  
eyelashes that many ways. "That's *terribly* kind of you, Governor.   
But really, you know, the architecture here is what fascinates me.   
Might I have more of a tour around the buildings? That colonial  
armory of yours is such a *marvelous* reconstruction."

"Ah, you've noticed. I'm quite proud of that building, quite  
faithful inside as well as outside. If you'd like to go through the  
buildings, be my guest, Lieutenant. You can review our data banks to  
read about the buildings I've copied, if you like. I'd be happy to  
let you use one of my terminals here this evening."

"*May* I?" Reed's hand pressed gently to his throat. "That's  
terribly kind of you."

"Of course." Martello as much as dismissed Reed with the comment.   
"Commander, Lieutenant, enjoy yourselves. Jonathan, I *should* like  
to discuss a problem with you for a moment before you leave - a  
question about dilithium." 

Tucker dropped a hand to Reed's shoulder as they left the dining  
room. "You're makin' me gag, Malcolm, but it's workin'. You got  
your own scanner for the armory?"

"Of course. I wish you could catch what Martello's asking the  
Captain about dilithium."

"I'm guessin' they need a new supply, and he wants to find out if we  
have any reserves. The amount of power that replicator's usin' and  
all, they'd need it eventually. If you get the chance, call up to  
the ship an' have them find out if there's any dilithium deposits  
here on Kiwar, especially ones in range of these folks."

"Right. I'm guessing I'm allowed into their armory to look around,  
since I'm apparently harmless - while I'm checking their arms supply,  
I'll get T'Pol to look into it."

"Good - an' I'll play dumb while Singer shows off the reactor an' the  
energy plant. I'm gonna do some of that wanderin' around first - I'm  
wonderin' if all the survivors are as happy as Martello and Wilcox."

"I'm wondering if the local tribes are as happy as the settlers,"  
Malcolm stated as he fumbled for his scanner. "It's quite one thing  
for us to be interacting with a local population - even though there  
wasn't a warp drive civilization here; after all, Calliope did have  
an emergency -- and it's very much another thing for a Starfleet crew  
to be taking part in a civil war and acquiring slave labor."

"Couldn't agree more. An' Martello's a pistol - does he really  
believe what he's sayin' 'bout his crew or 'bout the locals? At  
least Wilcox sounded somethin' between pragmatic an' cynical 'bout  
bein' a goddess or whatever - but I swear Martello really thinks he's  
got somethin' goin' with this governor or god or whatever business of  
his."

"Oh, he'll get something, all right," Malcolm snorted. "And if he  
lays one of his damned filthy hands on Jon, he'll get to find out  
just what *I* can do with *my* hands." 

* * *   
"I guess the Cap'n's still with Martello," Tucker opined after  
meeting up with Reed again. "How'd the armory tour go?"

"I had no clue that anyone would ever use a replicator to produce  
that much anachronistic technology, but Martello has enough  
eighteenth century replica flintlocks there to equip a small army,"  
Reed sighed. "All in immaculate shape. I've never really handled a  
musket before," he sighed. "I wish I could have fired one, but I had  
to look vaguely afraid of the things. He's got some rifles there,  
too, which aren't period, but they're considerably more accurate than  
the muskets. And my scanner says that he has a vault full of nearly  
modern plasma weapons buried under the whole thing, presumably where  
nobody else knows to look for them - I gather he's not willing to  
take that many chances, when you get down to it." Reed checked that  
the scanner was safely back in a pocket of his uniform. "What about  
the warp engine?"

Tucker heaved a sigh and leaned back against a brick wall. "Wearin'  
down, though Martello won't admit it. Singer's puttin' on a good  
face, but she's worked to the bone - actually, she didn't look so  
hot; I think she's sick. That engine they're powerin' everything off  
of needs an overhaul she can't do with what they've got, and they  
*will* be short of dilithium within the next year. She didn't tell  
me that, but it was pretty obvious. Did you find out if they have  
any dilithium ore down here?"

"T'Pol says no," Reed responded, easing himself onto a patch of  
grass. Kiwar is significantly lacking in dilithium resources of any  
kind. Unless they feel like dealing with traders, Martello's got to  
convince the Captain to provide more dilithium."

"We ain't exactly got a stockpile," Tucker told Reed. "Ain't a lot  
we can spare. If these people wanna keep up this standard of livin'  
for more than a couple a' years, they gotta overhaul that engine,  
bank a dilithium reserve, and realign their power distribution,  
especially to that replicator. Otherwise, I give 'em three years  
outside before they all wanna go home, except maybe for Martello."

A voice came from around the corner of the building. "I'd say about  
half of us would leave tomorrow if you asked anyone but Len." It was  
Wilcox, now in the lilac dress, which did suit her. She came around  
to Tucker and Reed, sitting down carefully beside Reed. "I was about  
to ask both of you to tea at my house, if you'd like to join me.   
Especially if you want to continue this conversation. Len's Iwa  
guards are trained to listen for anything that sounds even vaguely  
insurrectionary. The party line is that we're happy as clams ruling  
two aboriginal tribes. The truth is that Mickey Singer's possibly  
terminally ill, and all we have is a medic, not a doctor. Most of  
the younger crew would love to leave. I'd stay, no matter what - I  
love Derrick and we have children - but Len would never let anyone  
here go. God forbid Starfleet would find out he's a power-mad  
lunatic who finally found a place he could literally call his own."

She paused. "And I think you've both done a lovely job playing dumb.  
Commander Tucker, First Officer or not, you're an engineer, I  
gather. Lieutenant, I did hear what you'd said about our armory - I  
take it you're a weapons officer as well as a fashion consultant? I  
have the feeling you're not nearly as... mmm.... whatever... as you  
look."

Reed grimaced. "I hope Captain Martello doesn't figure that out.   
But I wasn't lying - lilac *is* your color."

"And Derrick *does* love it. I wouldn't worry about Len noticing, by  
the way, unless you drop your guard near him or one of his guards the  
way you just did when you thought you two were alone. Come on to my  
house - it isn't safe for us to keep discussing this out here. And  
don't break character again when anyone might see you, gentlemen -  
not if you want to get off of this planet."

* * *  
As Reed and Tucker had been touring the area and talking to Wilcox,  
Archer had remained at the Governor's Mansion. The dilithium  
discussion had gone on for much longer than either had planned, but  
the situation was certainly complex. When they were finally through  
with the issue, Martello brought out a decanter of replicated cognac  
and invited Archer to his study to help him drink it. There were a  
thousand reasons Archer should have said no, another thousand to go  
with Martello, to indulge nostalgia for his old ship, to indulge his  
curiosity about an old lover. Staying with Martello won handily over  
departing until dinner.

"Try this; it's excellent," Martello assured him. And, indeed, it  
was. Archer was seated on an extraordinarily comfortable leather  
couch, near an enormous, currently unlit, fireplace, with a snifter.   
The temptation to stretch out and take a nap on it was strong, but  
Archer wanted to know more of what had occurred, and told Martello  
so.

And so Martello talked, spinning a story of the aboriginal wars, of  
Calliope's intervention, of everything that Martello, Wilcox, and  
Singer had done to build their colony, to convince the natives that  
with their weaponry, with their technology, they were the gods of  
local legend. The fact that their arrival and actions had fulfilled  
the Kiwaran prophecies of a return of the gods was not lost on them,  
however, Martello explained... who was to say that humans might not  
be the gods of some other planet, as they so clearly were on this  
one?

Martello poured both himself and Archer more brandy, Archer clearly  
entranced with Martello's storytelling. He had always found Martello  
an attractive man; he'd never have agreed to spend the better part of  
three years in Martello's bed otherwise. Martello had never  
pressured his lieutenant into bed; it had been Archer's choice to  
become the lover of Starfleet's greatest larger-than-life  
swashbuckler while assigned to Martello's ship. The reasons why were  
still apparent to him as he listened to Martello spin his tales of  
the colony.

Finally, Martello set his snifter down and rose from his seat, coming  
behind Archer. He dropped a hand on the younger captain's shoulder.   
"Think about staying, Jonathan."

Archer looked up at Martello regretfully. "I can't, Marty."

"Why not?" Leonard Martello had never taken a rebuff lightly; it was  
meant to be pursued and killed, not accepted.

"I have a mission."

"You have a duty, Jonathan. You have a duty to yourself to do  
something you want to do with your life, not what everyone else wants  
you to do with it."

"I have a ship."

"There are others to run it. If they care to. Bring them here, let  
them see what we have. Let them help us build this place. All of  
this is mine, Jonathan. I'm offering it to you. My bed, this  
mansion, the lives of all the people here - all mine. They're yours  
if you'll share them with me. Surely you know that."

"Marty... we haven't been together in years."

"But it seems like yesterday, doesn't it?" Damn the man; it was true.

"I *have* a lover, Marty," Archer protested. That was true, too. It  
was a solid, real fact. He couldn't doubt either the sincerity or  
the depth of Malcolm Reed's passion. And he couldn't doubt his own  
feelings for Reed, except when his ex-lover was getting him drunk and  
importuning him to the tune of half a kingdom, such as it was.

"That hothouse flower? Really, Jonathan, what's an orchid like that  
doing on a starship? He ought to be doing interior decor for the  
ship, not piloting it. You can do better - you *have* done better.   
And I'm asking you to come back. Pick up where we broke off."

"Marty... no. I can't." Archer set his own snifter down on a side  
table as the housekeeper informed them that Tucker and Reed had  
returned for dinner, as had been planned. Once, such an offer from  
Martello would have been all but irresistible. Now, Archer had too  
much responsibility. To his crew, to Starfleet, to his father...  
perhaps to Earth as a whole. And, most of all, to a man who was  
going through the torments of the damned to protect him, both as  
Archer's lover and as the man in charge of keeping him alive and  
intact for his crew, from just the sort of thing Martello was now  
doing.

* * *

The dinner had been singularly uneventful, as neither Reed nor Tucker  
intended to let any of their discoveries of the afternoon be raised  
yet. Martello begged leave to retire early, citing pressing business  
needing his attention; he asked the housekeeper to show his guests to  
their rooms. Tucker was given a large, comfortable room on one side  
of a corridor; across the hallway, Reed and Archer had been given a  
room together. 

Archer slid an arm around Reed, pulling his lover close against him.   
"This has been one hell of a day."

"Agreed." Reed burrowed against Archer's broad chest. "Wilcox says  
the crew wants to leave. Half or more of them, anyway."

"Marty tells me there's a dilithium problem."

"Their usage is higher than their warp engine's tolerances,  
actually," Reed told Archer, clinging to his lover firmly. He  
sighed. "I'm tired, love. Ready to turn in?"

Archer ran his hand along Reed's side. "More than. I'm drained."

They parted and undressed wordlessly, in a companionable silence born  
of long-term acquaintance with each other, with each other's body.   
Passion was still there - the thought of Malcolm's body against his  
was still enough to cause Archer momentary embarrassment on the  
Bridge from time to time - but it was now tempered with the comfort  
of familiarity, with an ease that exists only with security, with the  
firm belief that one's lover will always be there in the morning.

It was enough to be tired, enough to slip under the bed's covers  
together, to curl around the other, against warm, naked skin; no  
longer a need to have sex every time they went to bed, as if the  
occasion might never come again. Reed's head was pillowed against  
Archer, one hand beside it, idly fingering the hair on Archer's  
chest. Archer held Reed against him with one arm wrapped loosely  
around his lover's side, his hand stroking the amazingly soft skin  
that covered Reed's rock-hard muscle much as he might pet Porthos in  
other circumstances.

Archer broke the silence. "Marty asked me if I'd come back to him."

There was no shock, not even a pause in Reed's breath. "And you  
said?"

"I'm here, Malcolm." Nothing else needed to be said. He loved Reed,  
had been faithful to him, despite opportunity, even before he'd  
promised commitment to his lover. Reed knew he'd turned down offers,  
had seen Archer steel himself against importuning by more than one  
man and not a few women. 

"He's deranged, Jon. What he's doing down here - it's absolutely  
insane." Reed pressed his head more firmly against Archer's chest  
for a moment.

"I... I don't know," Archer said. "It's hard to say. We weren't  
here, weren't in their shoes. What he did might have seemed  
reasonable at the time."

"You're still in love with him," Reed observed. There was no anger  
or agitation in his voice. "Not enough to do anything about it. But  
enough not to see what he's doing."

Archer grunted a negative. "I was never really in love with him; at  
least, I don't think I was. He fascinated me; I was impressed by his  
reputation, by everything about him... but I wasn't in love with him.  
I wasn't ready to be in love back then. And a good thing, since I  
was waiting for you."

Reed chuckled into Archer's chest. "I'll concur that it was a good  
thing. And flattery will get you everywhere, love. But I do think  
you care for him a good bit more than you realize. And I hate to say  
that I think it's affecting your judgment here. Martello strikes me  
as quite dangerous."

"Marty's harmless. *You're* the dangerous one, you know. And if I  
have to prove to you that I'm all yours, I'll be happy to oblige."   
Archer pulled Reed into a firm embrace.

A hand ran through Archer's hair, smoothing it down against the  
pillows. "Not tonight, love. You need to get some sleep. When we  
get back to the ship, I'll be happy to remind you just how dangerous  
I am - in bed, anyhow."

Kissing his younger lover gently, Archer told him, "That sounds like  
a plan." He let go of Reed so that they could settle back into a  
comfortable position to sleep. "I love you. I'm glad you're down  
here with me."

Reed burrowed back into his lover's broad chest. Jonathan Archer was  
without a doubt the most comfortable pillow he'd ever had in his  
life. "So am I, love. So am I." 

* * *

Archer, Reed, and Tucker found themselves alone at breakfast the next  
morning; the housekeeper informed them that Martello had risen early  
for business and had already breakfasted, but that he would see them  
off the planet. At about the time they finished eating, Martello  
appeared in the dining room in riding breeches and a waistcoat.   
"Good morning, gentlemen. I'm sorry I wasn't able to join you, but  
I've had a good deal to do this morning. I've been making some  
plans. Jonathan, could I see you in the drawing room for a moment?"

"Of course." Archer rose and followed Martello out of the dining  
room.

Several minutes later, Martello returned. Archer wasn't with him.   
However, a small contingent of Iwa guards, all armed, was behind him. 

"I regret to inform you that Captain Archer won't be returning to  
your ship with you, gentlemen. Or, should I say, lady and  
gentleman." Martello gave Reed an obnoxious grin. "I really can't  
take the chance that you'll notify Starfleet that we're down here.   
All of this means too much to us. And we need your dilithium  
reserve, I'm afraid; I don't care to take the chance that we'll run  
short before anyone else comes along to answer our distress beacon.   
Oh, and Lieutenant, I truly do apologize, but I've known Jonathan  
longer than you have... and I'm afraid it takes a *real* man to keep  
Jonathan Archer happy - which seems to be my department, not yours.   
He'll get used to being one of the local deities shortly, especially  
since he'll never have to leave the Governor's Mansion." 

An Iwa guard forced Reed and Tucker out of their chairs. "I suggest  
the two of you head back to your ship - I'll open a hailing frequency  
and be in contact with you later, so we can discuss matters more  
thoroughly."

The number of Iwa guards with weapons suggested that argument would  
be wasted. Flintlock rifles might use obsolete technology, Reed  
thought, but that didn't mean they wouldn't kill you. He cast a  
glance at Tucker. "I think we'd better leave."

The gun in Tucker's back was possibly what led to his agreeing so  
readily with Reed. Left to his own devices, Tucker usually objected  
to such ideas. "I kinda think that's the game plan here." He glared  
at the guard holding the flintlock against his spine. "Can I walk to  
the shuttlepod without you pokin' that thing all the way into me?"

"Kufa," Martello called over to the guard behind Tucker, "please  
escort the two white gods there back to their chariot, so the Sian do  
not bother them."

"Yes, Governor."

"The third will be staying with me, Kufa. I believe that a festival  
will be in order."

"Very good, Governor." The guard and his men steered Reed and Tucker  
out of the dining room, and then out of the building, towards the  
shuttlepod.

 

* * *

The trip back up to Enterprise was nearly silent at the start,  
punctuated by muttered curses by both men and a few "oh, Gawd's" from  
Trip. Reed, trying to pilot, was nearly hyperventilating, his jaw  
clenched to near the point of fusing shut. He finally radioed up to  
T'Pol. "Shuttlepod to Enterprise. Commander Tucker and I are  
returning to the ship. Captain Archer is *not* with us."

"T'Pol to Reed. Why is the Captain not with you, Lieutenant?'

"We'll be on board soon. I'll explain it then. Reed out." He shut  
off the radio, sighing.

"What do we do next?" Tucker mused. 

"Depends what Martello says," Reed replied. "However, all things  
considered, I'm sure we'll be having to fight."

"Why?" Trip pounded his fist against the shuttlepod's console. "We  
could blow Martello into nothin' in one or two blasts. What's he  
thinkin'?"

"He's not thinking," Reed responded. "At least, not the way we are.   
He doesn't know what Enterprise has, but he knows we're better-armed  
than he apparently is. However, although he's not sane, don't  
underestimate him. He's all too intelligent, I'm afraid. I'm quite  
sure that whatever he comes up with isn't going to be anything we'd  
possibly anticipate."

They were approaching the shuttle bay. Reed fell silent again, and  
prepared for docking.

T'Pol was in the bay to meet them. Reed and Tucker glanced at each  
other, uncertain as to who should speak first, or what to say. After  
a few false starts, as T'Pol remained silent and thoughtful, the two  
finally managed to gasp out the details of Archer's abduction on  
Kiwar.

The Vulcan contemplated the news quietly. After a few moments, she  
turned. "Then we shall expect to hear from Captain Martello some  
time today. Commander Tucker, please download the data that you and  
Lieutenant Reed have collected from the colony. I believe that we  
should review it. Lieutenant, I believe that we need to hear from  
Captain Martello before we determine a response. Please be  
prepared." She looked at Reed with less professional detachment for  
a moment. "I realize that this may be very difficult for you,  
Lieutenant, considering your relationship with Captain Archer. I  
want you to know that I appreciate your composure right now. I would  
suggest that you try to get some rest until we hear from Martello." 

Reed nodded weakly and headed for his cabin, appreciative of T'Pol's  
gesture but certain that any effort to rest would be wasted. He  
stripped off his uniform, lay on his bunk vainly attempting to  
distract himself from the situation with a novel. The concentration  
required, however, was too great; he was unable to focus. For a  
moment, he appreciated Tucker's fondness for comic books; they might  
have been a better distraction. Putting the book down beside him on  
the bed, he stared at the ceiling aimlessly, trying not to consider  
all of the possibilities.

Finally, the comm panel crackled. "T'Pol to Reed. I have been  
contacted by Captain Martello. Please report to the situation room."

"I'll be there in a moment. Reed out." He rose unsteadily, still  
trying not to think about Martello's possible ideas, and reached for  
his uniform. 

Reed entered the situation room shortly thereafter to find T'Pol  
engaged in a conversation with the room's other occupant, Tucker.   
"You wanted to see me?"

"Yes," T'Pol replied. "We have received an ultimatum from Captain  
Martello. That, and a challenge. According to Captain Martello, he  
intends to have Captain Archer, as you indicated, remain with him,  
and he also wishes us to turn over our dilithium reserve to him.   
Further, all of his people will be remaining on Kiwar. The  
alternative, he proposes, is that Captain Archer will be free to go,  
and any of his crew who wish to leave will be free to go, but we will  
supply them with a small dilithium reserve and may notify Starfleet  
of their whereabouts. However," T'Pol continued, all but restraining  
a sigh, "the choice of outcomes is contingent upon our sending  
Captain Martello our best possible challenger to meet him in a duel."

"A *duel*? Good Lord!" Reed shook his head. "I told you the man  
wasn't well, Commander."

"That ain't all," Tucker snorted, throwing up his hands. "The whole  
duel thing's crazy enough, right down to challenger getting choice of  
weapons, an' seconds, an' all. But it ain't enough just to do that -  
he also insists that the winner's gonna be the one who lives."

Reed considered Tucker's words, nodding. "That sounds about right.   
I suppose I'd better go get ready, then."

"What?" Trip was astounded, and looked every inch of it. "You can't  
be serious!"

"Oh, I'm very serious," Reed answered, looking first at Tucker, then  
T'Pol. "We've got to respond one way or another, and under any  
circumstances, that's my department. And the easiest way to respond,  
that puts the fewest people at risk, is for the logical person - me -  
to take him on." He stared directly at T'Pol, who gave the very  
slightest, almost unwilling, nod.

"You could get killed," Tucker protested.

"Of course. That's a risk I take every day. Tactical's like that.   
Do you have a better candidate to go deal with him? The thing is,  
Trip, I have an enormous advantage over Martello."

"What's that?" Tucker asked.

"I know *he's* a deranged, dangerous son of a bitch. He has no clue  
that *I* am. He thinks I'm a bloody swish that can't swat a fly, and  
that's right where I want him."

T'Pol looked at a monitor, her fingers running quickly over the  
keyboard as she verified information. "You might wish to know that  
the year after he joined Starfleet, Captain Martello was a pentathlon  
competitor in your Earth Olympic Games."

Reed nodded. "Which includes shooting and fencing. If he made the  
Olympics, he was good. Still, that's over twenty years ago. He has  
pistols and swords down there, whether he still uses them or not.   
Best to presume he can, though he may be rusty." He shrugged. "I  
knew being on my college fencing team would have a purpose someday.   
I never quite thought this would be it." He thought for a second.   
"I'm sure you'll wish to be there, Commander, and I'd appreciate  
that. However, I'd like Mr. Mayweather with us as well. When do we  
leave?"

Tucker checked his padd. "We're to be there in the morning, 1000  
hours."

"I need to be down there by 0900 at the latest. I'll need to speak  
to Commander Wilcox before I meet up with Martello." Reed turned  
back to T'Pol. "If you need me, I'll be in the ship's gym. I need  
Ensign Harrison to meet me there - he's a martial arts expert with  
sword background. It's not the way I learned to fence, but any  
practice should be better than none." He threw a half-salute to  
T'Pol and exited the situation room, his face fixed and unreadable.

* * *

Reed met Tucker and Mayweather at the shuttlepod bay. "Figgered  
Travis'd pilot," Tucker said. The helmsman was checking over the  
shuttlepod a final time. "He's prob'ly less worked up than either of  
us."

"That won't last much longer," Reed said. "Travis?"

The young helmsman stopped in his tracks. "Yes?"

Reed waved Mayweather over to him. "Travis, I wanted you to know now  
\- you're going to be my second." Tucker began to protest. "I have a  
reason, Commander," Reed replied, holding up a hand. "First off,  
Martello's a stickler, as you've seen, for certain historical  
details. As I read the old Code Duello from 1777, your rank is a bit  
too far removed from mine for it to be strictly appropriate for you  
to second me. Second," he continued, reaching into a pocket, "you  
know what this is, Travis." He pressed a small black palm-sized  
object into Mayweather's hand. "The only thing you need to know  
about being my second is this: if anything happens to me, use it."

"What is that?" Tucker asked.

"A little toy I've been working on that might come in handy down  
there. Keep it in your pocket, Mr. Mayweather." Reed clambered into  
the shuttlepod. "Let's head down."

They landed on Kiwar shortly after 0830. A small crowd came over to  
meet the shuttle; at Reed's behest, Tucker and Mayweather shooed the  
crowd away. There was no chance that Martello would not find out  
that they had come down early, but it hardly mattered that much at  
this point. Reed led the other two men to Commander Wilcox's home  
and knocked on the heavy wooden door. "Commander Wilcox."

Wilcox answered the door herself, surprised to see them. "Lieutenant  
Reed, Commander Tucker, Ensign - won't you come in?"

"Just long enough," Reed told her, "to ask if you can operate that  
replicator for me. There's something I need before we head up to the  
Governor's Mansion."

"Are you taking your own weapons?" she asked, gathering a few things  
to take with her.

"In a way."

They followed Wilcox to the replicator as she quietly fussed at  
Martello's latest lunacy. He was so certain of winning both the duel  
and his point that he'd declared a feast for that evening. Her  
speech was guarded but the implications were obvious to the men;  
Martello, resident god-in-chief of Kiwar, was prepared to announce  
the arrival of his mate to the presumably rejoicing throng that night  
at the dinner.

Reed conferred with Wilcox for a few moments upon their arrival at  
the replicator facility. She turned on the machine, keyed in his  
requests, which the other men couldn't hear, and, finally, hit the  
switch.

Shortly thereafter, Wilcox handed a pile of something black and  
unidentifiable to Reed, who bundled it up in his arms. He merely  
excused himself to Wilcox and the other officers, and ducked behind  
the replicator, into a dark corner, with his loot.

He reappeared in a few minutes, to nods from Wilcox and stares from  
Tucker and Mayweather. "What on God's earth is *that* for?" asked a  
bewildered engineer.

"I'm planning to challenge him on sword," Reed answered. "It's  
easier to fight in this than it is in uniform. Less loose fabric to  
get caught in or on anything. And it stands a better chance of  
turning a blade." "It" was a pair of glove-soft, and apparently  
glove-tight, black leather pants that wrapped themselves around his  
hips and legs like a second skin and left little or nothing to the  
imagination, tucked into high, glossy, stiff black leather boots that  
looked to Tucker like a pair of riding boots. A loose white silk  
shirt, open well below the neck, was tucked into the pants and  
covered by a black leather vest. He was holding a pair of black  
leather gloves that resembled driving gloves, with open backs. 

The effect wasn't lost on Wilcox, who was staring. Reed hardly  
looked like the same man who had been in a regulation Starfleet  
jumpsuit moments before. This Malcolm Reed looked every bit as  
dangerous as Malcolm actually was, as well as - was it the leather?   
was it the cut of the clothing? - thoroughly reeking of an overt  
sensuality that Tucker would never have associated with the  
Englishman under ordinary circumstances. Although he wasn't  
attracted to men, Tucker had no difficulty whatsoever seeing just  
then what Archer saw in Reed. The clothing did *something* -- what,  
Tucker didn't know, but even Reed's usual little half-smile was  
tangibly more sinister than usual, redolent of a cheerful willingness  
to kill half-a-dozen grenadiers before breakfast without thinking  
about it for more than a few seconds.

Even without a weapon at hand, Reed looked... deadly. Even without  
Tucker's feeling a real attraction, Reed looked... rawly, blatantly,  
sexual. And he didn't appear to be even the least aware of it.

"Besides," Reed smirked, "it ought to appeal to Martello's weakness  
for period clothing. As well as convincing him I'm too much of a fop  
to be worth wasting his time."

Tucker would have argued with "fop." If anything, he thought Reed  
was about to have a harder time carrying off his effeminate posing  
than he had before. He was slender, he was slight, but the effect  
was overwhelmingly masculine - even more so than that of the larger,  
far better-built, Mayweather, who normally made Tucker feel  
inadequate when he saw the helmsman working out in the gym.

If there'd ever been the slightest doubt in either of the other men's  
minds that Reed was an alpha male, it was gone now. Both Tucker and  
Mayweather had stepped to the side with an immediate deference that  
suggested they recognized who was at the top of the order.

"Let's get up there," Reed directed, indicating the Governor's  
Mansion. He stepped outside, back into the bright morning light.   
Tucker and Mayweather followed, Mayweather patting his pocket for the  
item that Reed had given him before leaving the ship.

"Aren't you nervous?" Mayweather asked.

"*Nervous*? I'm scared bloody shitless - I may be crazy, but I'm not  
*insane*," Reed groused. "However, Ensign... would *you* care to be  
doing this?"

"Uh... no."

"Then let me handle it. It's what I'm paid for, and not *nearly*  
enough, I'm starting to think," Reed snapped as he started hiking up  
the path.

Wilcox came out of the replicator facility, locking it after her.   
"I'm going up there with you," she told the group as she caught up to  
them. "Len's gone quite insane over all of this, as if he weren't  
there already. If anyone can try to talk some sense back into him, I  
should think it would be me." She tapped Reed's shoulder as they  
walked. "And remember to stay in character, Lieutenant. At least  
until you've got him in a corner."

"Any tips about his fencing abilities?" Reed asked over his shoulder.

"He practiced a bit until a couple of years ago, but he had to teach  
his guards how to fight, and of course none of them knew what they  
were doing when he first taught them. So in the past ten years he's  
never gone against anyone with training. You *do* have training?"

"I competed in school," Reed acknowledged. "Never went as far as  
Martello did with it, but I've done it more recently."

"He favors his left side," Wilcox said. "Remember that. And I've  
only ever seen him use a foil."

Reed chuckled as he trudged up the path. "Well, then, that's just  
what I won't pick."

* * * 

As the group approached Martello's Governor's Mansion, Tucker could  
see Reed change slightly, then more emphatically. He'd heard  
Commander Wilcox, twice now, exhort Reed to stay in his guise of a  
far-too-effeminate-for-Starfleet aesthete when he was anywhere near  
Martello or his Iwa guards; the armory officer was pulling himself  
back into character in front of Tucker's eyes. The same man who had  
nearly given Tucker cause to reconsider the matter of sex with men a  
few minutes before was now devolving into what Tucker thought was  
called a leather queen. 

The frightening thing about Malcolm Reed's ability to turn on that  
pose was that he did it so well. Tucker had never heard more than  
the rarest comment from Reed that he would have thought of as camp,  
no matter how relaxed Reed had been at the time. Why Reed was so  
good at the routine when he wanted to be was a mystery Tucker wasn't  
sure he wanted answered.

Reed was practically swishing his way up the path by the time they  
were close to the Governor's Mansion. A group of uniformed Iwa came  
down to meet them; Tucker and Reed recognized Kufa, the guard who had  
jammed a gun into Tucker's back, as the leader. Mayweather shook his  
head in disbelief at the sight of tattooed aboriginal peoples in  
colonial American clothing, but remained silent as the guards led  
them to the Mansion. Martello stood on the steps, his graying hair  
back in a long unbraided ponytail over a black sateen waistcoat and  
breeches. "Come in, gentlemen," he said, eyeing the group carefully.  
"And what a surprise to see you here, Pam." He ushered them into  
the mansion's foyer.

"Len," Wilcox begged, grabbing the captain's arm, "this is  
ridiculous. Call the damned thing off! You don't need to get hurt  
or killed, and if you kill a Starfleet officer... there's no way that  
ship up there isn't going to bring back a detachment that could wipe  
us all out. Be sensible!"

"Are you a Starfleet officer, Pamela, or a goddess?" Martello asked.   
"The gods have no fear of death. What can Starfleet do to us now?"

If there had been the slightest possibility that Martello was not  
completely deranged, it was gone now. Wilcox backed away from him in  
horror. "Kufa," Martello called, "Commander Wilcox would like a  
ringside seat for the festivities. Why don't you have her seated with  
Captain Archer?"

Kufa and another guard dragged a struggling Wilcox into another room,  
through a set of double doors.

"Now, gentlemen, to business," Martello said, rubbing his hands  
together cheerfully. "I believe I extended a proposition to you  
regarding your captain, the dilithium, and Calliope. Do we have an  
agreement?"

Tucker stepped forward. "We do. We're acceptin' your challenge,  
Cap'n Martello."

"Splendid." Martello took a deep breath. "Kufa! You might bring  
out the audience." Kufa came out of the other room, followed by a  
group of guards who were restraining both Archer and Wilcox. Wilcox  
was still struggling against the men holding her; Archer stood still,  
his face expressionless until he saw Reed. His eyes widened at  
Reed's wardrobe, then lit up briefly - then Archer looked ill, as  
fear followed the prior moment of anticipation. By the time Martello  
turned in Archer's direction, his face was studiedly blank again.

"Now, who am I to take on? Who's the best man on Jonathan Archer's  
crew, eh?" Martello eyed Mayweather carefully, noting his muscles,  
apparently putting his money on the helmsman.

Tucker clamped a hand firmly on Reed's shoulder, startled by the  
heaviness and softness of the shirt Reed wore. "Took a bit o'  
deliberatin'," Tucker drawled, "but we all decided on Lieutenant Reed  
here. Ensign Mayweather's his second."

Martello stared in utter amazement, then swore. "I ask for Jonathan  
Archer's best man, I can see both of you here," he said, gesturing to  
Tucker and to Mayweather, "and I'm seriously being told I'll be  
fighting his *catamite*? Good Lord." He looked over Reed carefully,  
and not without some interest. "And it's such a shame to have to do  
this to someone like you, Lieutenant. I'm sure Jonathan's found you  
terribly amusing, and I'm certain I'd find the same. If one of the  
others were fighting me," he suggested, "you'd be quite welcome to  
stay here with us afterwards."

Reed lowered his gaze, then peered across at Martello through his  
eyelashes. "Oh, I don't know," Reed purred. "The place is lovely,  
of course, but I just don't *do* well with Colonial. I find French  
Mediterranean *so* much more attractive. And it goes better with my  
color, don't you think?" He pulled on the gloves. "I *think* there  
are matters to attend to?"

Martello glowered, though still contemplating Reed with open lust.   
Archer, watching the exchange from across the large room, looked  
decidedly less comfortable than he had, slightly unnerved by the  
sight of his ex-lover's attentions to the man who held his heart now.  
And there was nothing Archer was free to do about the matter, not  
with one guard holding him, one training a gun on him, and several  
others across the room, ready to attack at the first sign that  
anything was amiss with Martello's plans. 

"Very well. Kufa shall be my second." The captain of the guard came  
over to join Martello. "Your choice of weapons, Lieutenant.   
Anything in these rooms, anything on these walls - feel free to  
pick." 

"Of course." Reed began a slow, thorough search of the weaponry on  
display, immediately ruling out, again, the ancient firearms in favor  
of blades. A bullet might go anywhere, but steel at close quarters  
was bound to land somewhere on your opponent. And Reed had age,  
speed, and surprise in his favor against Martello's better sword  
training from his Olympic days. And there was one other thing.   
Martello wanted this to the death? But he and Martello were both  
trained to fight with foils, aiming to score by thrusting - his  
ensign, with the Asian sword training, used a full blade with edge,  
that cut rather than thrust. It had caught him a bit off guard  
during his practice. Reed walked over to the far wall, indicating a  
pair of crossed cavalry sabers. "The sabers, Captain Martello?" he  
inquired blandly. "I think these will do."

"Kufa." At Martello's command, the Iwa crossed the room and removed  
the sabers from the wall, carrying them back as Reed followed.   
"Would you care to examine them, Lieutenant?" Martello watched as  
Reed looked over the blades, felt the sabers' respective weights, and  
finally nodded, taking one of them. The former Starfleet captain  
appeared to be contemplating how to handle the swords Reed had  
chosen, larger, heavier, and far less flexible than regulation  
fencing gear, and unsuited for the thrusts that were expected of a  
championship fencer such as he had been. Reed found them far more  
comfortable to handle than the katana he'd been forced to borrow from  
Harrison; his own martial arts training had never included that.

"Now," Martello said warmly, "the rules, Lieutenant. These are  
sabers, of course, though not traditional fencing sabers; under  
standard rules, no contact below the torso is allowed, but the arms  
and head are permitted. No second weapon, no two-handed stance, no  
defensive padding. I myself am wearing none, though you may wish to  
check; I have no doubt, Lieutenant, that *your* ensemble, attractive  
as it is, leaves no room for anything of the sort. No striking or  
grabbing with the hand, and, of course, no action against an unarmed  
opponent. We shall begin with the usual foot distance between  
blades. Kufa will call us to begin, if that's acceptable; he has  
done it before. As I indicated to that Vulcan on your ship, there is  
only one possible determination of who has won -whichever of us is  
still standing at the end. Are we in agreement?"

"Certainly," Reed replied, adjusting the gloves once more. "No  
argument here."

"I presume, then, that you're quite prepared to die, Lieutenant?"   
Martello began warming up to his saber, displaying himself to the  
assemblage.

"Oh, I'm always prepared to die, Captain," Reed answered, stretching  
himself out. "It's part of my job description. I just don't plan  
on doing it today."

"Really? You might rethink that. After all, what is your job  
description, besides keeping Jonathan's bed warm?"

Reed gave a tight-lipped half-smile. "Wait until one of us has drawn  
first blood, Captain, and I'll tell you."

"You *are* a cocky little bastard, Lieutenant," Martello snapped.

"Thank you. It means a great deal to me to hear that from you," Reed  
quipped, taking himself to the middle of the room and waiting for  
Martello to follow. Kufa looked at the two men thoughtfully,  
adjusted their positions, and stepped back.

"Begin."

Reed and Martello circled for a moment, each studying the other.   
Reed was tempted to lunge, to go ahead, remembering his instructor's  
training: "First study your adversary's position and begin a false  
attack, to discover his instinctive parry." The only problem was,  
that was exactly what he would normally do, and exactly what Martello  
could be expected to do... but what would a hothouse flower with a  
probable fear of injury do, knowing that he couldn't back out?

If he were Reed, he would wait for Martello to move, expecting the  
false attack, and - like that; Martello had lunged - parry it  
stupidly, a little clumsily. A misstep to the right, cross the leg  
behind... and yes - he jumped back - that *had* been as close as he'd  
thought it would be.

But it told Reed what he wanted to know, he decided as he parried  
another of Martello's thrusts off of his blade, a bit more skillfully  
this time, but not enough to display his own ability. Martello was  
good, but rusty, and he did indeed favor his left side. 

He also seemed to ignore that the joy of using a saber was that you  
didn't just thrust - you got to slice and dice. Reed parried again  
and riposted, a close-on lunge to Martello's left that came within  
striking range of the shoulder. He backed off slightly before  
Martello could parry, then decided to speed things up - possibly a  
blunder he'd regret, but Martello wouldn't expect it. He dropped  
down, left hand on the floor, for another lunge to Martello's left,  
while ducking a brief cut from Martello, and thrust up, to the left,  
nicking the side of Martello's face.

Martello backed slightly as Reed jumped up. "First blood to you,  
Lieutenant. A lucky accident."

"I doubt it," Reed called, ducking another cut and lunging again,  
backing Martello a bit further.

"Oh?" Martello parried a cut from Reed's blade.

"My job description." Reed feinted low, moving back to Martello's  
left again, looking for an opening.

"Which is?"

There it was, waiting for a lunge to move Martello to the side. Reed  
moved with a slash, putting Martello off balance. "Weapons officer."  
Another feint, and a parry from Martello, locking blades. Reed  
flicked his blade loose, then backed up. "And as I said, I don't  
plan to die any time soon."

"Damn you!" Martello snarled, moving furiously towards Reed. Reed  
had counted on that, hoping for rage and lack of concentration from  
the disclosure. He stepped aside to dodge one lunge, then parried  
and riposted, now passing directly past Archer and Wilcox. Wilcox  
gasped as Martello feinted low, then came at Reed's sword arm  
quickly. Archer, beside her, was pale, his teeth apparently grinding  
to keep himself composed. Reed dodged again, but not quite fast  
enough; fortunately, the blow fell on his shoulder at an angle and  
was, as he'd hoped, caught by the leather vest. The vest was cut  
slightly, but the snagging managed to turn the blade before it  
actually cut him; it stung, from the force of landing against him,  
but he didn't think he had serious damage.

He took the opportunity to advance, saber clashing against  
Martello's. Martello had clearly been formidable in his time; he was  
dangerous to underestimate now. What Reed needed was another edge.   
Martello was compensating for speed and agility, and was recovering  
from his sudden bout of rage; Reed needed something Martello couldn't  
overcome. Looking around quickly, he found a sudden reason to be glad  
he was small. His slight weight just might be supported... and the  
large chandelier in the foyer was within reach of the main staircase  
if you were halfway up the steps, yes. Thank God one of his tutors  
had said a man his size should think about gymnastics; he'd hated it,  
but the year's training had had its uses before.

Reed allowed Martello to back him over to the staircase, then, backed  
up one step by Martello's lunge, he took three steps at a time to the  
middle of the stairs as Martello followed. Keeping the saber in his  
grip, Reed reached up and pushed off the steps, giving him a chance  
to grab two of the lowest branches of the ceiling fixture. As  
Martello approached, Reed swung out with his boots to catch Martello  
in the chest, sending the older man down the stairs backwards with  
some force. Reed let go of the light and ran down the steps to meet  
Martello just after the former captain landed at the bottom, and  
jabbed the point of his saber directly against Martello's chest.

Martello looked up at Reed. "Touche, Lieutenant." He was breathing  
heavily, winded from the fall. The saber was half-out of his hand.   
"I didn't expect it of you. Which, I presume, was your ploy all  
along. I'd be happy to let you have the win," he suggested silkily  
as he struggled to sit up.

His opponent left his saber in place, moving along with Martello as  
he rose. "Really?" Reed sneered. "Your rules, your game, Captain.   
You wrote them when you thought you couldn't lose - I think changing  
them now that you think I could kill you is just a bit disingenuous,  
don't you?"

Martello was sitting up now; the saber was on the floor. "You  
wouldn't kill me now, would you, Lieutenant?"

"Not while you're unarmed; it wouldn't be sporting." Reed tapped a  
boot against the floor. "So I might suggest that you rescue that  
saber as quickly as possible, hmm?"

Archer pulled himself free from his amazed and distracted guards and  
laid a hand on Reed's arm. "Malcolm, please. Don't do it. You  
don't need to kill him."

Reed turned to Archer, his sword arm still steady, blade still lodged  
at the notch of Martello's waistcoat. "Jon, I really think I  
*should*. He's done enough damage to this place, he's done enough  
damage to his crew, and he's done *more* than enough damage to you.   
And I really don't care to have him on the same ship with us, taking  
him back. Besides," Reed sighed, "at the moment I'd rather enjoy  
it."

"Humor me," Archer replied, running his hand along Reed's side. "We  
don't have to hold him on Enterprise."

Kufa stepped forward from his place. "If I may. In such a  
situation, Lieutenant, is the proper procedure not for the seconds to  
decide the continuation or to end the duel?"

The weapons officer took a deep breath and nodded slowly,  
regretfully. "Of course."

The Iwa crossed the room and took Mayweather aside. They returned  
together a few minutes later to pull Tucker aside. Reed waited for  
them, his free arm around Archer's waist now, but still with the  
saber's point in place. Finally, Kufa stepped back to the center to  
speak to Reed and Martello.

"The seconds have decided. This duel will end now. The Lieutenant  
is clearly the winner. Therefore, the terms proposed to the  
Starfleet ship must be enforced. Further, Captain Martello, as  
captain of the Guard I am taking you into custody."

"What for?" Martello gulped.

"You kidnapped the Starfleet officer," Kufa replied. "You hold your  
own people here against their will. And from what I see here, I do  
not think that you are any god, nor do I think that any of my men  
will disagree with me. Guard, release Commander Wilcox. We will  
appoint her and her husband, our tribal leader, as our new  
governors." Wilcox shrugged herself out of the guards' grasp with a  
sigh of relief. "Very good. And please escort Captain Martello to  
the stockade."

The guards helped Martello to his feet and hauled him away, as Reed  
threw his sword to the floor. "Oh, well, just my luck. And I was  
*so* looking forward to that." Archer slid his own arm around Reed,  
squeezing him. If he'd ever had any feelings left for Leonard  
Martello, he didn't have to worry about it now; between Martello's  
kidnapping him, and the threat of Reed's being killed in the fight,  
there was nothing left but disgust, and a very slight trace of pity  
for the man's obvious derangement. He could well understand his  
lover's feeling that the matter wasn't completed with Martello still  
breathing.

Wilcox made her way to Archer and Reed. "Jon, of course you're free  
to go. I can't apologize enough for what's happened here, but there  
was nothing I could do."

"I understand that, Pam," Archer told her. "This wasn't your fault."  
Still holding Reed, he turned to Tucker. "Trip, contact T'Pol.   
Have them send a Vulcan ship out here with room to rescue some of  
Calliope's crew and a dilithium shipment for the personnel staying."

"Yessir." Tucker reached for his communicator.

Wilcox cleared her throat. "Commander? Be sure they have two other  
things - a decent medical unit for Chief Engineer Singer, and a brig.  
I don't want Len staying here, I want him off-planet. If I didn't  
think he was ill and needs treatment, he'd be up for a court-martial  
on kidnapping and attempted murder at a minimum." Tucker nodded. As  
he talked to T'Pol, Wilcox turned her attention back to Archer and  
Reed. "And Lieutenant... thank you. For everything. I really don't  
know what to say." She held her hand out to him.

Reed took her hand, squeezed it, and shrugged. 

"It's only my job, Commander Wilcox."

She shook her head in an emphatic negative. "I'm not sure that  
shuttle piloting, spying, acting, fencing, *and* fashion design all  
fall under weapons and tactical. Unless they've changed the  
requirements."

Another shrug. "I've always said, you do what it takes."

"You're far too modest."

Archer coughed. "I don't think so." He looked at Reed. "Malcolm,  
promise me one thing. Tell me you're never wearing this outfit  
outside of my cabin again."

Reed batted his eyelashes, smiling. "Really? I thought you'd like  
it."

"I do. Believe me. But it's... just... you look less naked when  
you're not wearing anything at all." Archer had a faint blush.

Reed raised one eyebrow. "Oh." A grin. "Well, if you like it that  
much... I think I can accommodate."

"Damn." That was from Travis. "Thought you were gonna wear that to  
the next party."

"Well, I *was*..."

"Cap'n," Tucker suggested, "doncha think you should let everyone get  
one look at it so they can get damn good an' jealous?"

"All right. Once." He returned to Wilcox. "We should be going. Is  
there anything else we can do for you, Pam?"

"Just get the Vulcans here and we'll be fine." She reached over and  
hugged him. "It's been good seeing you, Jon. I wish it had been  
better circumstances for all of us." A peck on Reed's cheek. "And I  
suppose it's late, but congratulations." She looked at Archer  
carefully. "He's much better for you than Len was."

"Don't think I don't know it."

* * *

The shuttlepod ride back to Enterprise was uneventful. Reed had  
taken care to change back into his uniform and to fold the other gear  
up as inconspicuously as possible. The other three men were still  
glancing at him as if he were still in it, with Tucker and Mayweather  
expecting to be ripped to pieces by Archer for even contemplating the  
leathers Reed had worn.

Finally, Tucker broke the silence by asking Reed a question that had  
niggled at him since early that morning. "Malcolm, what was that  
thing you gave Travis?"

"Oh, that." Reed gave a half-smile as the shuttlepod's pilot  
extricated the item from his own pocket and handed it back to Reed.   
"A little toy I've been tinkering with." Reed handed it to Tucker.   
"A palm-sized phase pistol. It doesn't keep a charge long, it's only  
good for a few shots, but it's easy to hide. I didn't care to trust  
that Martello wouldn't cheat, so I wanted a cheat of my own. I  
figured that if anything happened to me, Travis has used this before,  
so he'd be able to take out Martello anyway. As I said down there, I  
wasn't planning on dying, but I was planning on winning even if I  
did."

"You're somethin', all right," Trip marveled.

"Part of the job," Reed shrugged. "Just part of the job." He took  
the small phase pistol back from Tucker and secured it in his own  
pocket, rearranging the bundle on his lap that Archer kept pretending  
he wasn't eyeing.

All four men were exhausted upon their return to the ship, though  
Reed, with his blow to the shoulder, was the only one who headed to  
Sickbay - and that only after an ultimatum from Archer, who, knowing  
his lover's habits, also refused to accept his claim later of a clean  
bill of health until he'd double-checked with Phlox personally.

Reed finally arrived at Archer's cabin after dinner. He handed  
Archer a padd. "I thought I'd better get my end of the report down  
immediately. I... left rather a lot out. Somehow, I don't think  
Starfleet's ready for the details."

Archer glanced at the padd, then put it on his desk. "I don't think  
they're ready for your take on tactical officers' uniforms, either."   
He reached over and pulled Reed in for an embrace. Before Reed could  
protest on behalf of his clothing, Archer's lips were locked against  
his, taking Reed's breath away. He was flushed when the kiss finally  
ended. "And that was a damned fool thing to do, Malcolm - you could  
have gotten killed."

"I wouldn't have," Reed replied calmly. "Besides, we didn't have  
much of a choice, and who else was there that could have done it?   
And you were entirely too trusting of Martello by half - don't tell  
me you weren't acting out some leftover feelings for him instead of  
looking at what he was doing."

Archer's hands dropped to hold Reed's arms. "Guilty as charged," he  
sighed. "I wanted to believe he was still the same man I'd..." He  
trailed off. "I'm sorry. And I shouldn't be throwing that in front  
of you. I was wrong."

Reed leaned up to kiss Archer's face gently. "It doesn't matter. I  
forgive you. But don't *ever* do anything that miserably stupid  
again. But you owe me, Jon..."

"Yes?"

The tactical officer reached for a bag on the floor. "You have to  
let me put this on now."

His lover blanched. "Malcolm, you promised you wouldn't be seen in  
that outfit. Except for the party... and that's not till next week."

"Who's going to be seen in it?" Reed smirked, fondling the  
miraculously unscathed shirt. "I fully expect you to peel me out of  
it inch by inch, love. With your teeth. After that, we'll worry  
about what you'll have to do to worm yourself back into my good  
graces... hmm?"

Archer tugged at Reed's uniform zipper. "I have a few ideas, if  
you're interested..."

Reed slapped at Archer's hand. "Hold your horses, love. No fair  
helping me get into it. I'm changing into this, and you just wait  
and pretend that you've been abducted to the Presidio by the  
Alcalde's men and you're waiting for Zorro to show up to rescue you."

Archer blinked. It seemed safer than some other possible reactions.   
"*Zorro*?"

Reed's eyes twinkled. "I had Wilcox replicate a mask and a bullwhip  
while I was at it - I just didn't show anybody else. You never liked  
swashbuckling novels as a boy?"

"Well, yes, but --"

"No buts, love." Reed shook out the leathers and peeled off his  
uniform. He looked up at the ceiling for a second. "And how *do*  
you feel about chandeliers?"


End file.
